H.anzo Being Unable To Get The Feeling Of His Brother’s Hand In His Out Of His Head.

H.anzo being unable to get the feeling of his brother’s hand in his out of his head.

H.anzo unable to shake the sensation of his brother’s lips pressed warmly and firmly against his.

H.anzo swearing up and down to himself that no, it’s absolutely not that hand and that mouth he’s fantasizing about as he palms his half-hard cock through his briefs, that he isn’t picturing how G.enji’s hand would feel sliding past the waistband to jerk him off.

He muffles his sounds of pleasure, biting down on a shirt (not his, G.enji’s, and he swears that it was an accident when he grabbed it off the pile of clean laundry). It smells good, like clean and soap and G.enji and god help him but he can’t get enough.

He’s got his briefs around his ankles now, furiously working himself over and arching off the bed. He’s practically crying out when he cums, lost in the soft rapture of the vision of G.enji he constructed. It’s a new one, one he’s never pictured his brother in before. The G.enji in his mind went from using his hand to using his mouth, and he’s craving the soft, wet heat of it (he imagines that that’s what it’s like, it’s not like he’s ever had the chance to experience it for real).

He’s drowning in guilt after he climaxes, still pressing the shirt to his face. The smell is still comforting, but the material is working to keep tears at bay. There was no way in hell that G.enji would ever condone something like this.

…Would he?